Defying Gravity
by damnedscribblingwoman
Summary: The one where Hermione and Draco star in a musical. At Christmas.
1. There's no Business Like Show Business

**Originally written for the D/Hr Advent 2016. My prompt was hot cocoa.**

* * *

 **London, December 1937**

George Mortimer resisted the urge to check his watch, knowing full well that Mr Lloyd was late, and that confirming that fact would only serve to aggravate him. This was what came from dealing with these sorts of people, and he would never know what had persuaded His Majesty to request a Royal Command Performance at the Fortuna Major — dingy, classless place that it was — when he could have had his pick of any London theatre. Nay, when he could have had his pick of any theatre in the empire! George Mortimer was sure that many a savage in far less civilised a land would not have kept him waiting for what was now well above five, no, ten minutes.

As it turned out, Mr Mortimer could well imagine what had led the King to make such an unorthodox choice. Her Royal Highness The Princess Elizabeth had spoken of nothing else for weeks but of one Miss Granger in the role of Mabel in Seaside Delights, which was said to be the rage all over London, and wouldn't it be just the thing to see the performance? She was sure she could not conceive of a most delightful plan. Mr Mortimer was sure he could. It may well be that Princess Elizabeth would one day be queen and rule supreme over the land, but she wasn't wearing a crown yet, and he saw very little sense in indulging the fancies of eleven-year-olds.

The King was of a different mind, alas, and so it had come to pass that George Mortimer was at that very moment in the deserted atrium of the Fortuna Major, where a matronly woman had left him to go in search of John Lloyd, the upstart son of a brothel owner who fancied himself a theatre manager.

Other people offered their children toys for Christmas. It was Mr Mortimer's lot in life to work for someone who had both the means and the inclination to present them with misguided, culturally-bankrupt, damned inconvenient performances.

Just then Mr Lloyd came barrelling out of a side door.

"Mr Mortimer, sir," he said, out of breath. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting long."

"Not at all." In older, more civilised days, he would have had him drawn and quartered. "I trust all the preparations are underway?"

"Yes, sir. We've completely refurbished the Royal Box, though we had to close for two full weeks, which— Well, it's no matter. I'm confident you will be happy with the results."

Mr Mortimer felt no such confidence, but he still followed Mr Lloyd to what could only very generously be called a "royal" anything. He barely had time to assess the many shortcomings of his surroundings, however. From the second he walked into the box, he was transfixed by the action on stage, where a number of people were engaged in what he could only imagine were rehearsals.

Mr Mortimer had been privileged in his youth to see Sarah Bernhardt perform, and the woman on stage put him greatly in mind of the Divine Sarah, though they could not have been more different or the roles less alike. The woman's attire, which included a top far too revealing and a skirt far too short, would normally have invited the censure of one who prided himself on his rigid sense of decorum, but he barely even noticed, too taken in by the grace with which she moved around the stage, by her strong, crystal-clear voice and by the charm and playfulness of her performance.

The old gentleman allowed himself the private, never-to-be-voiced reflection that maybe Princess Elizabeth was on to something.

Mr Lloyd, who had been prattling on about fabrics and furniture and security arrangements, quickly realised that his exalted guest had stopped paying attention, and joined him closer to the front of the box.

"Stunning, isn't she?" he asked with pride. "There aren't two like her in the whole of Europe. And that over there is Mr Black, the male lead."

The man who had just run onto the stage was a fitting partner for the siren who had just made Mr Mortimer forget that he had set out to be entirely displeased by everything and everyone at the Fortuna Major. They moved as if one, with movements so perfectly in sync that it was if they shared one brain. Everyone else on stage, accomplished performers though they no doubt were, paled in comparison with the two leads — their movements a little less delicate, their dancing a little less polished.

And then Mr Mortimer's goddess of perfection tripped over a sailor-attired man directly behind her and the spell broke.

Hermione caught herself in time to avoid ending up sprawled on the floor and used the momentum of her spin to shove the idiot who had tripped her — again.

"Phillips, are you fundamentally uncoordinated?"

"Lay off him, Granger," Malfoy drawled, bored. "It was an accident."

"Don't even get me started on you, _Black._ " He smirked at her use of the name. "You came in late. Again."

"The devil I did."

"You did. Maybe you're too hangover to follow your cues, but don't expect the rest of us not to notice. Let's take it from the top."

"We've been at it for three hours," a petite blond protested.

"And unless everyone starts to focus, we'll be at it for three more."

"Enough," boomed a voice from the audience. "Granger, are you directing this production?"

Hermione bit back the retort that first came to her lips, settling instead for a sullen, "No, sir."

"Didn't think so." Mr Green, a portly, middle-aged man, got up and frowned at his performers. "We're taking a break. Fifteen minutes, everyone. And wipe that smirk off your face, Black. You _were_ late."

* * *

At the back of the theatre there was a door that led to a small courtyard, where performers often went if they wanted to grab a smoke during breaks. It was there that Peter Phillips could be heard bitterly complaining about the infamous, unfair and ignominious treatment he received at the hands of the stuck-up harpy who thought herself above her company just because her name was written in bigger letters than the rest.

"And who the bloody hell does she think she is? I'm telling ya; what that bitch needs to loosen up is a good f—"

"No one asked you, Phillips," Draco cut in, leaning against the door. He, for his part, did very much think himself above his company.

"Come off it, Black," said Dan Taylor, an Oxford drop-out who had tumbled out of academics and into the performing arts. "I've heard you say plenty worse. And little wonder — she gives you a harder time than anyone else. How you stop from strangling her, I'm sure I don't know. But you're in no position to moralise."

"My dear boy, if I have something to say to Granger, I say it to her face. I don't whine about it behind her back like a child."

"Now hold on a moment—"

"And what's more, Phillips, she's not wrong. Get your head out of your ass and stop fucking around. You're wasting everyone's time."

And with that he turned and went back inside, utterly unconcerned with the fact that Peter Phillips was probably at that very moment carping on about the insufferable toff who thought he was better than everyone else just because he came from money. Draco did not think he was better than everyone else just because he came from money. That was simply a happy coincidence.

He was entirely unsurprised to find Hermione still on stage, going over the steps of one of the numbers. She might be a stuck-up harpy, but she was a stuck-up harpy who worked hard for her top billing. He watched her for a few minutes from the wings. There was no music now and the deck was empty except for her, but that did not bother the witch. She smiled and flirted and danced around the invisible cast, her voice dipping and rising with a chorus only she could hear.

Draco waited for his cue and then joined her on stage, his strong tenor voice a pleasing counterpoint to hers. She betrayed no surprise at his arrival, but smiled at him with a delight that was all Mabel smiling at Ralph, the Pirate King's bastard son. He took her hand and she spun in place before melting into his arms — Mabel was smitten, however little Hermione shared in the sentiment.

As the song drew to an end, Ralph would have kissed Mabel, but Draco stopped just short of it, his smile turning mischievous.

"See?" he said, his lips brushing hers. "Perfect entrance."

Mabel's mask of sweetness fell and Hermione snorted.

"Even a broken clock is on time twice a day."

Draco let go of the witch with a dramatic sigh.

"You wound me, Granger."

"Were it that I could."

Green's timely arrival prevented hostilities from escalating, as they no doubt would have. It was a never-ending game between them — who could be the most unpleasant, who could pretend to care the least. She won, mostly, but Draco took comfort from the fact he let her win, it being the gentlemanly thing to do.

It puzzled the rest of the company. Hermione could be difficult — driven, demanding, perfectionist to a fault — but she was not petty. A little terrifying, sure, but not spiteful, except when it came to him. When it came to him, she was more than happy to play the prima donna to its full effect. And Draco, not being hindered by any great sense of restraint, was normally only too happy to humour her wish for a fight.

With the rapid approach of the Royal Command Performance, emotions were running high. Everyone was tired and irascible, a mood in no way alleviated by Mr Lloyd's constant reminder that this was their Big Break, and that the "entire future of the Fortuna Major" rested on their shoulders. The rehearsal was rare where no one burst into tears or stormed off in a fury — sometimes at the slightest provocation.

Other times there was significant provocation.

"You're being an insufferable, tyrannical bitch."

"Better that, _Black_ , than an undisciplined, talentless hack."

"One of these days, Granger—"

"You will what? Run home and tell daddy on me?"

His hand flew to the pocket where he kept his wand before he had the good sense to remember the Muggles all around them. Hermione smirked knowingly, which only made him consider the merits of risking an Azkaban sentence for the pleasure of wiping that smug smile off her face.

It was with great relief and no small amount of surprise that the day of the performance finally dawned on them without anyone coming to blows.

"Breathe," Draco whispered as they waited on the wings for their cue.

Hermione did not reply, too busy fidgeting silently in place. It never failed to amaze him how nervous she always was before going on. The great Hermione Granger, the golden girl of the London stage, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. He had seen her face a troll with more composure.

Her nervousness didn't last, however. One moment she was next to him, looking as if she was about to puke, and the next she was on stage, looking for all the world to see as a picture of poise and grace.

Draco allowed himself a moment to enjoy her performance. For all that Hermione was the most aggravating woman he had ever had the displeasure to meet, she was also bewitching. When she stepped in front of an audience, she was transformed into a creature made of light and loveliness and charm, and he would have forgiven much and more for the privilege to share that stage.

It started out well. Even without all the extra rehearsals, they had been performing those roles for over a year and it showed. Once the curtain went up, all nervousness melted away and they started to relax and to enjoy it, playing off each other and feeding off the energy of the audience. It was a thrill like no other. It was why they did it. And it mattered very little whether there were kings or princes in the crowd. That theatre was their playground; it was their home. During that first hour they were on top of the world.

And then, right before intermission, they came tumbling back down to earth.

There was a point in the performance when two of the pirates lifted Mabel on a chair above their shoulders and carried her around the stage. It had always gone off without a hitch, and this time would have too, except that Phillips tripped, causing him to lose his grip on his side of the chair. Hermione tried to jump clear off, but landed badly, her legs buckling under her.

Her grimace of pain was quickly replaced by a look of shocked outrage, and Mabel glared up accusingly at the pirates.

"Why, gentlemen," she said, her voice steady and clear, "is this any way to treat a lady?"

The audience roared with laughter as the pirates knelt before the fallen Mabel, begging her forgiveness with their forehead to the floor, offering to cut off their own nose as penance for such an offence, or could they maybe interest her in a ear instead. They had two of those.

Draco marched across the stage and shooed them away, helping Mabel back up. Her hands tightened on his arms when her right foot touched the floor, and she shifted her weight to the other leg. None of this showed on her face, however. Mabel beamed at Ralph, her voice rising with his in a reprise of their earlier duet. They would normally have walked off stage together, but in a feat of brazen familiarity that Mabel's Major-General father would no doubt have thought impertinent, Ralph literally swept her off her feet, carrying her off in his arms.

It was the end of the first part, and rather timely too.

When Draco put Hermione down backstage, she bit back a yelp, her face gone deadly pale. Mr Lloyd was a picture of misery, and even Mr Green, normally unflappable, looked grim.

"Cripps," Mr Green called, catching the eye of Hermione's understudy in the crowd that had gathered. "Go change."

"Josephine, do not go change." Hermione sat down, taking off her shoe. "I'm going to finish the show."

"You can barely stand," Draco said. "How do you propose to dance?"

Hermione snorted. "Do you think it's the first time I've danced on a sprained ankle? I'll manage. I just need a minute."

Mr Green looked doubtful, but Mr Loyd was ready to grasp at the flimsiest of straws. "Excellent, excellent. I must go find Mr Mortimer and see if anything is needed. Green, you've got this?"

There was nothing to be done but carry on. Everyone dispersed and Draco watched in silence as Hermione limped to her dressing room, shoulders squared and head held high. She might just make it through the night on sheer stubbornness, but he wasn't counting on it.

Whatever. It was no business of his.

He made it two steps towards his own dressing room before turning back and heading towards hers. Male performers were not technically allowed on that section of the backstage area, but Mrs Carter was too busy organising wardrobe changes to tell him off.

Hermione's door was open, and Draco found her sitting down on a tattered old sofa, her hands around her ankle. Her lips moved silently in what someone else might have thought a prayer, but Draco knew better. He could feel the magic around her — faint and weak and aimless. Old stories spoke of great wizards who could perform wandless magic, but such skill was not for mere mortals like them.

He crossed the room and knelt in front of her, reaching for his wand.

"It's not a fix," he warned, feeling around the ankle with his free hand. "When it wears off, you will be in a world of pain."

She nodded without a word, closing her eyes for a second when he cast the spell.

"Mr Black." Mrs Carter walked in carrying a dress. "You know perfectly well you cannot be here. Out. Hermione, dear, you need to change. And what in heaven's name have you done to your make-up?"

Draco was almost at the door when Hermione called out to him.

"Malfoy." He turned towards her, surprised. She never called him that, never acknowledged that they had known each other before. Once upon a time, in a different place. In a different world. "Thank you," she said simply.


	2. All Through the Night

The rhythmic ticking of the clock was the only sound in the small dressing room, all noise outside the closed door having stopped some time ago. Hermione kept counting the seconds, trying to convince herself to move. Ten more seconds and she would get up. Twenty more seconds and she would get changed. Thirty more seconds and she would absolutely get off the sofa and get dressed, because the night had been enough of a disaster without her getting herself locked inside the theatre.

Her foot pulsated painfully, the natural result of too much abuse and too little common sense. Malfoy's spell had carried her through most of the performance and her own stubbornness had carried her through the rest of it, but she took no satisfaction from it. Her mind kept going over all the things she could have done differently — if only she had been faster; if only she had jumped earlier; if only she had seen it coming.

If only she had been better.

Mr Lloyd had been all relieved exuberance after the show, happy to report that His Majesty had found nothing amiss with the performance and had enjoyed himself immensely, as had the rest of the royal family.

It was a matter of profound indifference to Hermione whether the King had found nothing amiss. She had found plenty.

She tilted her head back over the arm of the sofa, trying to look up at the clock behind her. 11.32pm. Soon enough it would be Christmas.

Ten more seconds and she would get up.

A knock on the door made her lose count. Draco waltzed in without so much as a by-your-leave, shutting the door behind him.

"You know you shouldn't be here," she said, sitting up and flinching when her injured foot objected to the sudden movement.

"Are you going to tell on me?" He lifted her legs and sat down on that end of the sofa, dropping them back on his lap. "'Cause that wouldn't be very sporting."

"Malfoy—"

"Don't be tiresome, Granger."

He opened a jar and scooped out some of the white paste inside it, and Hermione sank back down on the sofa, too tired to argue. The salve was cool against her skin, and his hands strong and gentle as they rubbed it on her foot and ankle, and maybe she didn't always have to be difficult.

"Mandrake root," she said after a while. The salve smelled of afternoons spent in the greenhouses, of the patch of land by Hagrid's hut, of double Potions in the dungeons.

Draco nodded, his fingers kneading and applying pressure to the more sensitive spots. "And what else?"

"Foxglove," she said. "And dittany. And nightshade."

He rolled his eyes. "You can't possibly smell the nightshade."

She couldn't, but she knew it was there, the same way she knew that the root was the only part of the mandrake used in balms, that foxglove was poisonous in large quantities, and that dittany had to be used sparingly if one wished to retain use of one's limbs. She knew because they had taken the same classes, once upon a time, learnt from the same teachers, slept under the same roof. Right until the world went up in flames, they had been the same, the two of them.

"How many laws have you broken tonight, Malfoy?"

Laws about using magic in front of Muggle-borns, laws about using magic _on_ Muggle-borns, laws about sharing magical secrets. To say nothing of the solecism of being nice to a Mudblood. Somewhere in the world, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were having palpitations.

He looked at her with serious grey eyes, this man who was a constant, bittersweet, heartbreaking reminder of a place she could never go back to, of the person she could never again be.

"Not so many I won't break a couple more." He smiled then, a smile that had been charming audiences up and down the country for the past few years. "How are you planning to get home?"

* * *

This was how people ended up stuck inside walls — by Apparating somewhere they had never been to and could not see — but Hermione refrained from pointing it out when Draco picked her up from the sofa with strong, familiar arms.

One second they were in the theatre and the next they were in the middle of her living room, alive and whole and undeterred by any inconveniently placed walls.

"Faster than a taxi, is it not?" he said, his breath warm against her skin.

Draco's magic coaxed all the lights to life: the table lamp by the sofa, the single candle on the windowsill, the massive Christmas tree in the corner — Hermione's one luxury in the otherwise spartan room.

"A more suspicious person would wonder why you're being this nice," Hermione said as he set her down on the sofa.

"I'm a fucking delight, Granger. Everyone knows you're the prickly one." Glancing around him, Draco added, "I imagine there's some tea to be had in this place?" Without waiting for a reply, he headed towards the kitchen.

"Can you even use an electric kettle?"

"I once played someone who could," was the less than reassuring reply.

As she was barely able to stand, she had no choice but to allow him to rummage through her kitchen unsupervised, causing Merlin only knew what sort of mischief. Malfoy might have all the advantages of a full magical education, but she put very little reliance on his ability to boil water without setting something on fire.

He managed tolerably well, though, returning some minutes later with a floating tray loaded with two steaming mugs and a box of water biscuits.

"Behold our Christmas feast," he said, sitting down next to her. The tray travelled leisurely to the coffee table where it landed softly without spilling a single drop of tea. "Far be it from me to criticise anyone's housekeeping skills, Granger, but the state of your pantry is a disgrace."

"Had I but known I'd be entertaining a Malfoy, I would have shopped." She blew on her tea before taking a tentative sip. "Hopefully the prospect of tomorrow's festivities at Malfoy Manor will be enough to sustain you for the time being."

"Hardly," he said, grabbing a biscuit. "Only friends and family get invited to Christmas lunch, and since I'm told I'm a disgrace to our name and bloodline, I didn't quite make the invitation list." It did not not come as much of a surprise. Hermione did not imagine he went by Black instead of Malfoy out of a sense of family attachment. "So you see," Draco added with a self-deprecating smile, "you really ought to be serving me a better supper than this."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but refrained from pointing out she wasn't serving him anything at all, since he had been the one helping himself to her tea and biscuits — expensive biscuits too. They were imported.

"Lend me your wand," she said instead.

"Now who's trying to get us in trouble with the law?" He surprised her by actually handing it over. She hadn't expected him to. Not really. Not to someone like her.

For a moment Hermione was too shocked to actually do anything. The wand felt alien in her hand, foreign and unfamiliar. And then she drew an arc in the air with it and sparks followed its trail, and it was all she could do not to burst into tears. She had spent years trying to recapture on stage that thrill, that sense of wonder that she could only find in the core of a wand.

Ignoring the knot in her throat, the witch waved it over their meagre repast, and the tea bubbled for a moment, turning a rich chocolate brown. Candy canes appeared out of thin air and dove into the hot cocoa, dancing circles around the edge of the mugs. Finally, Hermione tapped the box of water biscuits with the wand, and it turned into a tin overflowing with ginger snaps, and Florentines, and small gingerbread people dressed in colourful icing outfits.

"Behold," she said, with a small smile. "Our Christmas feast."

"Show off," he teased, accepting his wand back.

Hermione picked up her mug of hot cocoa and held it towards him. "Merry Christmas, Mr Black."

He grabbed his and touched it to hers. "Merry Christmas, Miss Granger."

The hot cocoa was rich and sweet, and it warmed her like only chocolate could — a taste of childhood and laughter and happier times.

"Why aren't you welcome home for Christmas?" she asked with more curiosity than tact. "Your parents did not appreciate you running away and joining the stage?"

Draco snorted, setting down his mug. "I'm a grown man, Granger. I'd hardly describe it as running away."

"But they didn't like it?"

He looked away. "No, they didn't."

No, she couldn't imagine they would. Lucius had been one of the most vocal proponents of the law casting out Muggle-borns from wizarding society. When the Aurors and Minister officials had arrived at Hogwarts to round up all the Muggle-born students and members of staff, he had been there — imperious and arrogant, with nothing but disdain for her and everyone like her. Having a son who made a living entertaining Muggles could not sit well with such a man.

She reached out to Draco before she could think better of it, running a soft hand through his hair. It was a gentle, comforting, instinctive gesture driven by muscle memory that was all Mabel's, and sympathy that was all Hermione's — because it was Christmas, because he had been kind to her, because the girl who saw him as the visible symbol of all her childhood hurts was also the woman who recognised the unfairness of blaming the son for the sins of the father, was also the woman who missed her own parents, and never more so than at Christmas.

He quirked an eyebrow in her direction and Hermione actually blushed. Damn Mabel, and Christmas, and ancient history that kept haunting her like the ghost of Christmas past.

And then Draco did something foolish and idiotic and dumb. He closed the space between them and kissed her, a simple, familiar gesture that was suddenly new, and thrilling and alarming. And Hermione — who had better sense, who absolutely knew better — did something even more foolish and idiotic and dumb, and melted into the kiss, humming her approval when he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer against him.

Because it was Christmas, because she was lonely, because even if he was a constant reminder of all the painful parts of her life, he was also a steady reminder of all the good ones — of moving staircases, and enchanted ceilings, and a time when the world was magical and boundless and full of possibilities.

* * *

Draco brushed a stray curl from Hermione's face and the witch drew closer to him in her sleep, muttering something nearly indiscernible about mandrakes and leprechauns and curtain calls.

It had started small: a touch, turned into a kiss, turned into something else entirely, and he wasn't sure how it had been different from all the other times they had kissed — in rehearsals, in performances, one time at Hogwarts — except that it had.

Maybe it had been the setting — hot cocoa and a Christmas tree and a sofa just big enough for two. Maybe it had been the realisation that they were the same, the two of them: lonely and stubborn and far away from home.

* * *

When Hermione woke up, Draco was gone. She vaguely remembered him waking her up just before dawn to say goodbye, claiming some matter he needed to attend to, or whatever it was men told women they had slept with when they wished to make a hasty departure. And she wasn't surprised, she wasn't even angry. It was her own bloody fault for being a fool.

Reaching for her robe, she got up, carefully testing her injured foot. It was sore, but she could walk.

On her way to the kitchen, Hermione stopped herself from glancing at the coffee table, where the evidence of last night's events could still be found. Of all the stupid, dumb, idiotic—

A small pop drew her attention to the Christmas tree, and her gaze fell on a small red box that hadn't been there a second ago. The box was longer than it was wide, and was kept closed by a golden ribbon. Hermione walked up to it and picked it up, only then noticing the card under it. She reached for it, immediately recognising the handwriting.

 _"It's temperamental,"_ it said, _"and old, and ten different sorts of illegal, but it can probably manage the odd cup of hot cocoa. D. Malfoy."_

Hermione opened the box with trembling fingers to reveal the wand inside. It was longer than hers had been, and odd-looking, and unlikely to be a perfect fit, and she had never been more grateful for anything in her life.

When Draco Apparated by the front door ten minutes later, Hermione could still be found sobbing with the wand held against her chest.

 **The End**


End file.
